


Poker Night

by CaptainSwank



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Boot Worship, Breathplay, Burnplay, Choking, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, F/M, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Forced Feminization, Gags, Gangbang, M/M, Mindfuck, Public Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23692543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSwank/pseuds/CaptainSwank
Summary: Jon, in his defiance, has caused Jonah some displeasure.Jonah prepares him for his punishment.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 63
Kudos: 193





	1. Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leitnerpiper69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leitnerpiper69/gifts).



> This is only the beginning of a journey of utter, profound depravity. In future chapters, Jon's real punishment will begin, and MANY tags and ships will be added. There's some absolutely despicable garbage coming down the pipes, so please keep an eye on the tags and decide whether or not this sort of thing will be fun for you, or absolutely totally the opposite of fun. Thank you and please be well!!
> 
> Furthermore, I can take no responsibility for the design of Jon's lovely outfit. For that I thank the recipient of this fic.

Jon shakes with the indignity of what Jonah is inflicting upon him. Every fibre of his being resists this decoration, this fussing, this  _ care _ \-- as if he were an object, a doll, a toy bent and dressed and made soft and pretty for Jonah’s gratification. 

“Every fibre, truly?” Jonah asks him, chiding, and Jon’s lip curls in disgust. Before he can school his loudly broadcasting thoughts he asks himself if there is really to be no part of him that he’s allowed to keep clean and free and untouched by Jonah’s constant violation.

“Oh, you have  _ no  _ idea, Jon,” Jonah says with a smile. Jon is suddenly filled with a foreign and profound urge to  _ bite _ ; to lean forward and slam his head into the bridge of Jonah’s nose; to throw a wild and untrained punch. To kick and thrash and fight his way out until he can run, run away from all that Jonah has done to him. From what he's made him into.

At this, Jonah smiles all the wider.

Jon closes his eyes and what he sees inside himself is Martin. His insides roil and burn at the notion that his image may-- his image might not have sprung there through his own will. But nevertheless the message comes through without having to be articulated by either of them.

He’s doing this for Martin. He is  _ allowing  _ this because he has Jonah’s word. That Martin will be safe. At the completion of this thought Jonah leans forward and whispers into his ear:

“Would it be  _ easier _ for you if I removed that tricky little element of choice?” he says, his words light and sharp with the promise of the sweet terror of oblivion. Jon’s guts go from boiling to frozen at the notion. The thought of completely --  _ voluntarily  _ \-- surrendering his will in its entirety while Jonah does what he wishes with his body is one thing. But that moment wherein he actually considers it as a viable option… He feels the revulsion hot and prickling in his wrists, his palms, his scalp. Jonah laughs short and high at his shudder and pats him lightly on the cheek as he leans back and out of Jon’s space.

“Quite,” Jonah says, as if Jon voiced a response. Jon can’t even feel like he’s won anything through this decision. He suspects that whatever’s to come will be all the more  _ fun  _ for Jonah this way. “Right,” Jonah says next, smooth and businesslike. “Arms up, then.” Jon is suddenly struck with the impression that he’s some kind of robot, a mindless automaton that requires manual input to move. Feels almost if there’s the smallest of delays between the message being sent from mind to body. Inevitably, he raises them. 

Jonah smiles benignly and as if with pride, but steps in a circle around Jon as a predator might before its coming meal. As he does so he wraps a lilac corset around Jon’s slim upper body. With deft and delicate fingers he starts to hook the garment to itself at Jon’s side. 

Jon sees that the catches are eye-shaped, but he can’t even begin to laugh. When Jonah is finished, Jon drops his arms, and Jonah can’t seem to resist bending down to place a reverent kiss against the thick white scar on Jon’s shoulder. Jon’s eyebrows knit together and he exhales through his nose as if in pain. 

Then Jonah grips Jon gently by the waist and urges him to turn. Jon follows the gentle insistence of his hands, and then his back is to the man. It occurs to him faintly and as if from a great distance that it’s strange that he doesn’t feel significantly more vulnerable like this. For Jonah is everywhere, always, and the position doesn’t feel any different from all the others to which he has become accustomed. Then as if to actively undermine this notion, Jonah takes in hand the long silky ties hanging down from the back of the corset. With one hand on Jon’s shoulder and the other on the ribbons, he pushes Jon slowly but insistently forward towards his massive and elegant four-poster bed. 

“ _ You might want to hold on _ ,” he whispers, leaning in to Jon’s ear once again. Jon shivers and does as he is told. And Jonah begins his work.

With each taut pull of the ribbon Jon feels as if Jonah’s enjoyment of the process is physically palpable. With every rough tug it becomes clear he is holding back neither his strength nor his desire to leave the corset at its tightest possible fit. Jon can’t help but let out little  _ ah, ah  _ sounds as his breath is steadily stolen from him. Behind him Jonah sounds constrained in his own way: Jon can feel the hot excitement of his breath against the back of his neck. Finally, Jon feels Jonah finish, tying off the ribbon in a nice neat bow. When he drops it, Jon falls forward into the thin column of Jonah’s bed, resting his head against it with closed eyes as he tests the farthest limits of the expansion of his lungs. 

His remaining ribs feel constricted by the corset’s hold and he feels compelled to keep his body tight and straight.The shallowness of his breathing almost makes him feel lightheaded, and his body moves again when Jonah’s hands around his waist lead him in front of a large and ornate mirror.

“And what a waist it is, mm?” Jonah breathes. He squeezes Jon there, a little. “What do you suppose, Jon, four inches smaller than when we began?” Jon takes a moment to look at himself. “You should thank Mr. Hopworth for his assistance in the matter,” Jonah finishes, with a very small smirk. 

The final piece of this alarming aesthetic puzzle is a thin length of lace affixed to more ribbon that hangs from the top of the front of the corset. Jonah reaches around Jon’s shoulders and ties a piece tight around his scarred throat. Two other fine straps are secured around his upper arms. Jon sees Jonah admire the total effect in the mirror: across his narrow chest stretches what is clearly a large lace eye, the bottom of the corset and the strap attached to his neck creating its lower and upper lids, respectively. The lace forms the iris, and the pupil, well. The golden pupil contains within it a large and elegant “M.” Jonah must be feeling sentimental, as he elects to take the traditional route of gazing into the reflection of Jon’s eyes to gauge his reaction. When Jon manages to keep his stare vacant, Jonah presses him. “So?” he asks. “What do we think?” Jonah smooths his hands down Jon’s sides. “How do we look?”

“Like an absolute wanker,” Jon says, putting everything he can manage into it, the eyeroll, the bored tone, everything that’s left inside him. Jonah smiles widely.

“Indeed!” he replies. “The incomplete look _ is _ rather ridiculous.” Jonah takes Jon’s hand with an almost absurd tenderness and leads him back to the bed, pushes him down to be seated upon it. Jon clutches tight to his apathetic defense and tries for a sigh.

“Go on, then,” he says. 

“Of course,” Jonah replies smoothly, and reaches down into a beautiful old box beside the bed to draw out two pieces of soft translucent material. He delicately holds Jon's foot in one hand, and the bunched up fabric in the other. Jon looks down on Jonah then, on his knees before him, one eyebrow raised over the glasses slipping slightly down the elegant bridge of his nose. The sleeves of the expensive shirt he wears under his waistcoat rolled up to the elbow, one hand caressing his slim calf. Jon feels as if he’s lost another point in this game as he is forced to look away. He misses Jonah’s small smile, but can practically feel it as he slowly rolls the stocking up Jon’s leg, inch by painstaking inch. When it reaches the top of his thigh, Jonah clips it up with the garter straps hanging down from the bottom of the corset. Jon sneaks a glance down at the stockings, and the lace pattern at the top almost looks like… Right.

“You’re really very clever,” Jon tells him, heaping on the disdain. “Truly, a master of subtle design.” 

“You won’t allow me my little pleasures?” Jonah responds playfully. “What more do I have to do to deserve them, do you suppose?” he asks rhetorically, as he lovingly slides the next stocking up Jon’s other leg, slow and intimate. “And really, Jon.  _ You  _ feel compelled to lecture  _ me  _ on taste?” He glances over with real amusement to the corner of the room where lies the shed pile of the clothes Jon wore when he arrived at this place.

“Somebody has to,” Jon replies. He might as well use his position as Jonah’s favoured plaything to do  _ some  _ kind of good in this world. It’s not like he can make it any worse than he already has. 

“Tell me you don’t love these, Jon,” Jonah says, not without humour, and produces a pair of shockingly high heels from underneath the bed, golden and gaudy and glamorous. Jonah carefully lifts one of his feet and slips it into the shoe, and he leans down to fiddle with the strap around Jon’s ankle. Jon hears a soft _click_ and when he leans back again Jon sees an ornate golden lock hanging from the strap behind his ankle. He gives his foot an experimental shake. Jonah smiles up at him and shakes a ring of tiny, delicate keys back at him. Jon takes a moment to hold inside himself the shape of the idea that he will not be able to remove the shoes himself. 

“Almost done,” Jonah whispers absently. Jon is truly surprised to see how lost in all this he is. “Almost there.” He rises from the soft carpeted floor with more clinking gold between his fingers. Jonah holds out a hand, silently requesting that Jon place his own in it. Unable to meet his eyes, Jon does. Jonah places a gold band around his wrist: a thick tight cuff. Jon lets his hand drop and begrudgingly produces the other, but this time before placing the matching bracelet around his wrist, Jonah takes his hand and turns it palm up. 

“ _ Ah _ ,” Jonah sighs reverently, and lifts Jon’s hand to his lips. He presses them to the twisted ugly plane of his palm with closed eyes, lingering there for a moment so uncomfortably long Jon’s lungs start to work harder in their opulent prison. He has to pull away. Jonah pulls back too, and looks him up and down obscenely. 

“Once more to the mirror, my Archivist,” Jonah says. “Be a dear,” he says. “Humour me,” he says, too. He once again offers a hand, this time to take Jon’s but also to help pull him up. Jon understands the irony inherent in this line of thinking, looking down at his current state of dress, but, he. He still holds within him a tiny fragment of precious pride. He  _ does _ . So he moves to stand up on his own.

He gets fairly far, moving to rise on wobbly legs, unbalanced by the towering height of the shoes. But completely untrained as he is in the ways of heel-wearing, he stumbles forward. How kind of Jonah to be there to catch him. 

He looks up at Jonah, his hands where they landed against his warm chest. He knows now the blank, unaffected look is absent from his face, knows his scowl and reddened cheeks expose his humiliation. He pushes off of him quickly, still uncertain on shaky ankles, but doesn’t remove Jonah’s presumptuous hand as it slips around his waist to guide him. Jonah leans in to him to nose behind his ear, inhaling deeply and pressing his lips there. Jon wonders to himself if he has the strength and coordination to put a heel straight through Jonah’s foot. Jonah laughs.

“Now,” he says. “One final touch.” He once again puts Jon on display in front of his long mirror. As Jon’s corset tries to press him upright but his heels seek to undo him, Jonah steps up behind him and gently begins to caress Jon’s hair. Before coming here, to Jonah, Jon hadn’t the time nor the inclination to keep his hair as he liked it: no-nonsense, easy upkeep, something he need never consider in his day to day life. For some time now it was completely impossible to keep it in any sort of fit state. But upon his arrival, Jonah immediately had it washed and cut and styled. Now, he gathers it up between his fingers, and pins it elegantly up off Jon’s neck. After this, he reaches into a pocket and withdraws two final golden ornaments for Jon.

Jon tries to summon the courage to meet his own eyes in the mirror before him as Jonah reaches around to slip a long, golden, dangling earring through the holes made in each ear. They are, of course, of an eye pattern. Complete in his transformation, Jon can only drop his eyes to the ground.

“Now, Jon,” Jonah says, and he turns in sudden alarm at the edge in that voice. He sees the cruelty sharpening Jonah’s gleaming eyes. “I  _ do _ think you’re ready for your punishment.”


	2. Served

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon starts to get an idea of what Jonah's punishment might entail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. For those of you wondering about that punishment. Here's a little hint:

Jon thinks that maybe he’s starting to get the hang of maintaining his balance in these damnable shoes. Descending Jonah’s steep and stately staircase was its own ordeal, and it occurred to him on more than one occasion that Jonah’s mysterious little evening of fun might end up being cut tragically short. Wishful thinking or not, he made it to the bottom intact, but not without the excruciating assistance of Jonah’s hand upon his own. As they reached the bottom, Jon snatched his fingers back with a scowl, but also a shameful little wobble. Now, Jonah steers him with a light hand at the small of his back, resting gently below the pretty bow of the corset. Jonah stops him before a set of huge and imposing double doors. 

“Ah,” Jonah starts. He takes the tone of one who is perhaps about to engage in a business transaction requiring some delicacy. “There is, of course, one more thing.” Jon just stares at him, trying to bury the spark of hungry curiosity that always burns inside of him. He tries instead to focus on his exhaustion and his utter lack of patience for this awful game that Jonah is playing, and let _that_ be what shows behind his eyes. He can’t even begin to guess what further depravity Jonah has in store for him; can’t yet bring himself to try and reach out and fumble about for the answer in Jonah’s head.

“Here we are,” Jonah says, and he produces a thick black strap connected to a metal ring with four prongs attached to it. Jon raises one eyebrow.

“Charming,” he says, in a valiant attempt at sarcasm. But he feels his breath start to come fast and shallow, made all the weaker by the constriction of the corset. “I’m not sure that’s--” Jon clears his throat, and it hurts. “I’m not sure it’s completely necessary,” he tries. He’s not yet ready to reduce himself to begging. 

“Necessary for _what_ , Jon?” asks Jonah, with a kind of blinding brightness. Jon closes his eyes against it. What indeed.

“A-anything, really,” Jon says. He wonders what he might have left within him to trade for an escape from this final humiliation. Unconsciously, he shuts his mouth tight and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. 

“Well, if you’d like to back out of our little deal _now_ , Jon, I’m sure I could call on Martin and--”

“No! No,” Jon says, so quick and sharp that he gives away his whole hand before the game has even really begun. “I’ll wear it,” he whispers. Jonah smiles indulgently and moves to buckle the gag in place. Then he steps back to admire the full effect of Jon’s ensemble.

“Now it’s not that I don’t trust you, Jon. But I’m sure that everyone would feel _so_ much better knowing that you won’t misuse that _clever mouth_ ,” Jonah says, reaching out to gently tap the cold metal of the gag in time with those final words.

 _Everyone?_ Jon thinks.

Jonah pushes his way through the twin doors, and a part of Jon wants to roll his eyes and scoff at his transparent desire to make an entrance. But the rest of him is shaking, trembling with the need to see over Jonah’s shoulder and know just what’s waiting for him in that big old room. _That_ part easily overwhelms the first.

“Ah. Welcome,” Jonah starts, and he spreads his arms wide in greeting. The absolute terror of being seen like this is overshadowed by the need to see in turn, and Jon inclines his head slightly to see past Jonah’s body. And in that moment, nine heads turn in unison to look up towards the door. It must be immediately clear to Jonah that they’re all looking not at him, but past him, and with his arms still raised he steps aside with a flourish. “... to games night!” he finishes.

Jon stares at the faces of the people seated around the table. His mouth would’ve dropped open in surprise were it not already forcibly held that way by the metal ring clenched tight between his teeth. When he sees their expressions he almost wishes he’d gone ahead and blinded himself when he had the chance. But beyond the laughter, the derision, the naked glee, and the jeers, confusion still bubbles to the surface. Jon wonders what sort of horrible new powers Jonah might have developed at the end of all things. He’s seen a great deal ever since he had the unfortunate privilege of first making Jonah’s acquaintance, but having these people assembled before him was... impossible.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Jonah turns to him and says. (There’s a chorus of groans from around the table.) “But don’t suppose for a _moment_ that I’d let something so facile as the laws of space and time get in the way of our little evening together.” Forget space and time-- Jon’s blood freezes at the notion that Jonah seems to somehow now have dominion over death itself. Because at the table sits a grinning Michael Crew, and beside him Julia Montauk and Trevor Herbert laugh and laugh. Arthur Nolan simmers silently beside Oliver Banks, whose raised eyebrows are the only animated exception to his usually stoic disposition. Breekon and Hope are there too, cruel smiles carved into their unnerving faces. And beside a quietly smiling Peter Lukas, there’s the thing that isn’t Sasha. Jon makes a high and involuntary sound in his throat.

“Well, it seems as if everyone is here,” Jonah says pleasantly, as if to kick off a simple staff meeting back at the Institute. “And they look _thirsty_ , Jon,” he continues. “If you’d be so kind…?” Jonah motions to a pretty cabinet in the corner of the room. Jon can see an elegant ice bucket with a bottle of expensive-looking champagne nestled inside. On the cabinet sits an ornate silver tray. Every pair of eyes in the room rests upon him as Jonah tilts his head expectantly towards it. Jon closes his eyes, takes a long and shuddering breath through his nose, and slowly, unsteadily shuffles towards the cabinet. He doesn’t dare look any of them in the eye.

Whatever it is that they’re all saying about him as he shakily pours out ten fine glasses, none of it truly processes. He hears snippets of insults and disdain, threats and promises. They all ooze together into one pulsing ball of terror inside him and he can’t hear over the roaring crescendo of static inside of his head. He tries to focus on the rhythm of the menial task at hand, but as he pours out the last flute, Jonah is there behind him, whispering nastily into his ear.

“And would you like to know _exactly_ what they all plan on doing to you?” he asks him. Jon hesitates for but a moment, and then slowly, shakily nods his head yes. He tells himself it’s so that he can be prepared; so he can build up some sort of defense against the inevitable coming onslaught against his body and his mind. But it’s not even a question of want. For some time now the desire to _know_ has been a constant, all-consuming need.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Jonah says, leaning back. “You _do_ like surprises, don’t you, Jon?” At this, Jon finally begins to sense the impending arrival of real panic, its slow approach something that can be neither ignored nor avoided. He tries desperately to throw open the many portals in his mind, twisting doorknobs and frantically turning keys. But the knowledge is not forthcoming. He must face this trial in the dark. 

Jonah puts gentle pressure on his shoulder, turning him back to face his doom. The assembled guests have not yet begun their game: the cards lie abandoned upon the table. Many of them have pushed back their chairs and have stood up, and now hover ominously in a quietly laughing group. Jon presses on. He supposes he doesn’t have a choice.

When he arrives at the table, they don’t give him any space. As they all crowd around him he tries to shrink away out of pure animal instinct. But the heels don’t lend themselves to backwards mobility, and the champagne flutes clink dangerously on his tray. So he lowers it, and he forces himself to offer drinks to all the assembled guests. It’s Trevor who addresses him first.

“Not sure I care for your choice of Staff, Magnus,” he says. “Can’t even keep himself from looking like a right old mess.” Jon lets out a small noise of surprise when Trevor slips two rough fingers into his forced-open mouth. He tries to dedicate all his focus towards not spilling the drinks as Trevor pushes deep into him, slow and filthy. This time, Jon makes a sound of disgust when Trevor presses down on his tongue. When he starts to remove his fingers, he crooks them slightly and catches them on the back of Jon’s top teeth, forcing his head back. Jon whimpers again. When he finally pulls them out, he smears the wetness he gathered from inside of Jon around his open lips, and pushes the drool that slid down his chin back up and into him.

“And where’s _my_ drink?” Mike demands playfully. As he speaks he brings his hand down hard against Jon’s backside, making him yelp. The glasses really start to shake now, almost tipping. “You’d best watch out,” Mike says, smiling. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to spill any of those.” 

“That’s right,” Julia says, and before he can see the leg she’s extended from where she’s splayed out languidly in her chair, Jon trips. The serving tray goes flying, the remaining champagne flutes going with it. Jon lands on his hands and knees, hard, and makes a small sound of pain. He takes a moment there, on the ground, and feels a thick wet drop fall from between his open lips. He lets out a little whimper, just lets it go, because when his eyes refocus he sees before him a very fine, expensive-looking pair of shoes. They’re a little damp with moisture. Jon slowly raises his head, up past beautifully tailored trousers, past arms crossed over an elegant waistcoat, and into the brightly glittering eyes of Jonah Magnus.


	3. Used

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon tries to resist the inevitable. But that’s the thing about inevitability…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuckle your seatbelts, people. I’m not sure where you hoped or thought this was going, but. It has certainly Arrived. Take a look at those new tags, see if any of this might cause you any degree of harm. Stay safe, be well.

Jon watches the slow journey of a sparkling droplet of moisture as it slides its way down Jonah’s elegant shoe. Maybe, he thinks, this will be it. Maybe this is all that will befall him tonight. A few avatars, living and once-dead, stand about and mock him. Point and stare, laugh with pleasure at his debasement. Jon will shudder here at Jonah’s feet, endure a night of vicious harassment, and will be left to stitch together the errant slips of his wounded pride until Jonah devises some fresh new humiliation that he can force upon him. With this trembling thought gripped tight within him, perhaps he can survive whatever’s to come. But he doesn’t look up to seek confirmation in Jonah’s eyes. And no foreign, vile thoughts demand entrance to his mind. He is neither shocked nor surprised by the words Jonah speaks to snap back his focus, but it still hurts to hear them.

“Would you look at  _ that _ ,” Jonah says, addressing Jon and his guests. “It seems you’ve made quite a mess. And at my party, too. We can’t have that, can we?” He crouches down to Jon’s level, and grips his chin to tip his face up towards him. “Shall you clean it all up?” Jon jerks out of Jonah’s grip. The one saving grace of this is that he doesn’t  _ need _ to be able to verbally respond. He doesn’t even need to glare daggers at Jonah, stabbing him again and again with those knives in his eyes. All he has to do is think  _ fuck you, Jonah. Fuck you _ , and he knows that he will be heard. Jonah stands up and he smiles.

Because it is fear that Jonah feeds upon, Jon believes. It’s sweet thick terror that he laps up like milk, isn’t it? If Jon can just absorb this abuse, face it head on and with a stoic mind, perhaps Jonah will grow bored. Even if Jon responds with anger and with rage, maybe he can deny Jonah some small amount of satisfaction from all this. And maybe if he goes along with it, he will please Jonah, who will relent. So he leans down, eyes still burning deep into Jonah’s, mind still radiating a screaming litany of hatred, and slowly, agonizingly, excruciatingly, he drags his tongue across the tip of Jonah’s dampened shoe. He hears riotous sounds of approval from behind him but he tries to block it all out. One task at a time, and he can get through this. 

He tries to block out the taste of Jonah’s shoe as well, and its texture against his tongue. He tries to block out Jonah’s quiet words of encouragement, the stretch and burn of his jaw, the feeling of abject exposure and the sensation of cool air against his exposed thighs and arms and chest. But his mind is open and it all seeps in.

“Nice and thorough, there’s a good man,” Jonah tells him, as if engaging in some simple and legitimate business transaction. Jon tries to extricate himself mentally from this ordeal. Maybe he can send his mind elsewhere while his body works for Jonah and his associates, dutifully lapping the spilled champagne off the sides and top of his shoes. And Jonah laughs as if he’s heard Jon tell the most amusing of jokes, and he grabs him harshly by his hair. Long strands come undone from where it had been pinned up and off of his neck. 

“Excellent work, very well done,” Jonah says evenly, and Jon tries to pull away from his grip. Jonah just holds him harder, and grabs more of his hair up closer to his prickling scalp. “But there’s still so much more to do.” Jonah forces Jon’s head around to look at the rest of the champagne spilled across the floor. Raucous noises of affirmation rise from the table where the guests have taken a seat. Not-Sasha is dealing out the cards. 

Jonah drags him by his hair, forcing him to crawl upon his hands and knees, to the next little puddle. Jon makes small and involuntary sounds of pain along their journey. His mind absently settles on the wish that he had use of his lips, could swallow properly, could pause his crawling to wipe away the mess that’s being made all down his chin. That’s what he wants right now. But Jonah just pushes his head down, forces it into the next spill and he licks that up too. 

And it’s almost as if they’ve followed a wet little trail to the table. Jon comes face to face with the long tablecloth that covers it, and his eyes follow the fine, intricate pattern of it as he listens to Jonah speak.

“Now, if anyone needs anything at all over the course of the game, I shall be right here,” Jonah tells them, motioning to a small writing desk over in one corner of the room. “As you might imagine I have some business to attend to, but I will do my best to try and join you all for a game later in the evening,” he says conversationally, as if he’s not holding a man’s softened dignity between his long and elegant fingers. “But don’t hesitate to help yourselves to anything you so desire. Hospitality is what we aim for,” he says, sounding pleasant. Then Jonah walks around the table and puts his hands on Peter’s wide shoulders, giving them a hard, firm squeeze. “Ah, and Peter?” he asks. 

“Hm?” Peter responds, looking over his cards.

“Perhaps you’d like me to hold on to your purse for tonight? I do know how much you like to indulge in your little vice,” Jonah says, sharp and tight. 

“How very sweet of you,” Peter says. His tone is just about as sweet and pleasant as Jonah is. “But I think I’ll be alright.” Jonah raises his hands and gives Peter a firm slap on both shoulders. 

“I suppose you will. Well then! Off you go,” Jonah says, and he walks back around the table, pushes Jon underneath it, and fixes the tablecloth around him. Jon hears his soft footfalls as he slowly walks away. 

Sheltered in the red-tinted darkness that surrounds him, Jon decides to focus on this: he is finally obscured from everyone’s view. They can no longer see the depravity forced upon his body. With only this thought tucked safely within his mind, he curls up, wraps his arms around his knees, and shuts his eyes tight. He listens to the idle chatter coming from around the table interspersed with halfhearted accusations of cheating, accompanied by threats of violence. He feels the movement of the chips as they’re pushed about above him. And he smells a warm and organic kind of scent, strong and thick and permeating the space around him. He feels an insistent hand in his hair. When it pulls him forward, he opens his eyes.

Cold despair grips his heart, strangling it, and he can deny his fate no longer. The hand in his hair drags him forward, and he’s pulled up to the lap of some anonymous avatar -- who was sitting here anyway? He sets his mind to remembering-- these aren’t Mike’s short legs, those aren’t Trevor’s old shoes. They aren’t the matching coveralls of Breekon nor Hope. Perhaps it’s Arthur Nolan, then, who drags him forward, who drags his face right up to the stiff prick he’s pulled out of his unzipped trousers. Jon wonders what would become of him if he fought, now: ten beings of unspeakable power, dragging him out into the open. At least he’s hidden, here.

He’s dragged by his hair until his face is pressed up against Arthur’s cock. He pulls and pushes Jon so that he’s rubbing his cheek up against it, and then he’s maneuvering Jon blindly, bumping the head against his permanently pried-open lips. Jon can’t close his mouth, can barely flinch away, can only take it when Arthur finally finds the hole that’s been made of him and pushes himself inside. Mercifully he starts shallowly, maybe he wants this to last, and he grips the back of Jon’s head one-handed to slowly push the tip in and out from between Jon’s lips. Jon makes small sounds, hoping they can’t hear him over their talk and their game, but he’s helpless to hold them in. 

Arthur seems to tire quickly of the shallow penetration, and Jon’s panic rises as he dips deeper inside. Arthur moves in his chair a little to alter the angle, holding Jon so he can’t back away, pushing further and further into his mouth. Inevitably he slides a little too far, puts his cock in Jon’s throat, and Jon coughs and sputters around him. Arthur seems to like that-- his cock twitches at the clear sharp feeling of Jon’s discomfort -- and presses in deeper still on the next thrust. When he hits the back of Jon’s throat he can’t take any more; he pulls back against the hand in his hair, slides off the cock inside of him, and rests his cheek on Arthur’s thigh, coughing and choking through the gag. 

But Arthur won’t let him free and grabs him all over again, shoving his cock back deep inside Jon like it belongs there. He pounds the back of Jon’s throat raw, and Jon knows his tears are mixing with his spit as the whole wet mess drips down his cheeks and chin. His jaw and his throat and his eyes are sore and he can only think of breathing, swallowing, surviving, when Arthur pulls him off his cock one more time and pushes his head away to the side. 

An older hand with thicker fingers curls around his chin. The thought that it might be Peter’s floats up from the back of his mind like a fragile bubble that’s immediately about to burst. He has only a moment to wonder if the thickness of that cock will fit past the gag spreading him open but it does, it does. It slides in slower, filling him completely, its presence pushing thoughts out of his mind, rolling his eyes back with it. Soon it, too, begins to rub the back of his abused throat and he’s coughing and spluttering again. He feels limp and dazed and it barely registers when he feels hands groping about for his own. Each hand is carefully placed on the cocks on either side of him, each one pushing out from those matching pairs of coveralls.

He doesn’t hear the voices above him anymore, doesn’t feel the vibrations of the chips on the table. He just feels hard, hot cocks in his hands as he grips them and strokes them as he’s shown to-- as the hands curled around his own teach him how to pump them just the way they like. Just like that he’s passed around from guest to guest, avatar to avatar to be used for their pleasure. And soon enough he’s pushed in front of a hiked-up skirt:  _ Julia _ ?  _ Or, oh God, the horrible thing that isn’t Sasha?  _ But he can’t think anymore because the hand in his hair presses him forward, presses his face up against hot wet warmth.

He can’t close his lips but he can be held there, held tight and still while she thrusts against his face, rubs against him, soaking. He moans into her, overstimulated and fucked and hard, and pushes his tongue out into her. He can feel her sticky wetness coating his lips and tongue and cheeks and chin, because she’s circling her hips, making a mess of him. He presses his tongue against her everywhere he can, all his nerve endings overwhelmed by the sweet hot smell of her. His hands are still being used, his face is being fucked, and somehow everything else seems to float away. Heat sears its way through him when he presses his thighs together and feels the sheer stockings that are clipped to his corset rub and catch. She thrusts up into him one last time before pushing him away, and strong hands grab him again.

This time, they don’t pass him to the next wet cunt, the next hard cock. They just drag him out from under the table. They throw him bodily down onto it, scattering cards and chips and glasses. He lies there, body spread and thin chest heaving, barely seeing through his fucked-out eyes.

He looks up into the faces of the nine people assembled, and they all smile down upon him like wolves with sharpened, bone-white teeth. 


	4. Ruined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're not playing games anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to get all the tags! All I can do now is apologize.

Jon immediately moves to cover himself as best he can. He presses his thighs together and tries to shield his shame between his fingers, but quickly enough the hands of all the others reach down to hold him open and exposed. 

“Look at that, little slut’s all hard for it,” says Trevor. Jon shakes his head wildly.  _ No, no, I--  _ he tries to think, but the voices keep coming. 

“Couldn’t break him of that adorable stubbornness, Jonah?” Peter asks.

“Oh, it’ll come in time, I’m sure,” Jonah says mildly, not looking up from his work in the corner.

“Looks like he just needs to  _ relax _ a little,” Julia says. She must've grabbed another bottle of champagne, because now she’s standing over Jon with one hand in his hair. She holds his head back and tips the bottle, flooding his mouth. He chokes and coughs through it as it bubbles out over his gag because he can’t swallow it all. 

“Oh _fuck_ _yes_ ,” Jon hears, and Julia drops his head to hang off the side of the table. _Oh God_ , he thinks, because it’s Michael Crew’s cock that’s bobbing in front of him. 

“Hello, Archivist,” he says, in a pleasant tone that makes Jon feel like he’s falling all over again. Despite the futility inherent in the attempt, Jon tries to twitch away from him. But Mike’s hands catch the sides of his face to hold him still. “Still need to be taught a lesson, I see.” Jon’s face hangs in the perfect position for Mike to slowly feed him his cock through the gag. Jon starts to make high noises of protest when Mike doesn’t stop and slides his whole length into Jon’s throat. Mike hisses with pleasure when Jon starts to struggle, but the others are holding down his wrists and his ankles and his body. He can’t do anything to stop the cock in his throat, nor the slick fingers he feels rubbing against his hole. 

Soon Mike’s entire length is buried inside of Jon, and Jon starts to cough and gag and splutter. Mike holds himself there with his long cock obstructing Jon’s airways and his balls pressed tight against his nose. Jon can’t keep his mind or his body steady: both convulse in panic. At the exact moment he knows he can’t take a second more of it Mike pulls out. Jon takes a massive, gulping breath, no room in his head to even wish he could take the gag off to close his mouth and  _ bite _ . He can only react and breathe and try and fill lungs that already feel as if their full capacity has been restrained. Mike only permits him a few deep gasps before he puts it in again. This time when he pushes inside, he whistles with admiration.

“ _ Shit _ , Archivist,” Mike says to him. “I can see myself in your throat…” Mike moans loudly as he slides his fingers over Jon’s neck. He traces the shape of his own cock as it distends Jon, slowly and reverently sliding it in and out. Jon makes little gagging sounds when it hits the back of him. Mike presses inside again, and this time he runs his fingers around the ribbon tied tight around Jon’s neck.

“ _ Very _ sexy, Archivist,” Mike says, and Jon tries not to whimper but the sound is fucked right out of him. At that, Mike puts both of his hands around Jon’s neck. Jon’s body makes one last compulsive attempt to struggle, but the hands around him hold him down with too much power. Mike makes another sound like air escaping from a leak, and on every deep thrust into Jon he increases the pressure of his grip on Jon’s throat. 

What terrifies Jon most in not that he might die from this. He knows that he will not be permitted to.  _ That  _ is the knowledge that frightens him. That this interminable defilement might very well last for all eternity, here in Jonah’s nightmare world. In that moment, Mike steps back and Oliver steps forward, and they both come copiously into the mouth Jon just can’t close. It coats his tongue and fills his mouth and throat and he coughs up thick wetness that oozes down his face. Mike takes a moment to gather it back up and push it back inside Jon, and he thrusts his fingers inside a few times as well. Jon coughs weakly when they too hit the back of his throat. Then Mike reaches around him to unbuckle his gag.

“The hell are you doing?” Julia asks him.

“You think if we take its muzzle off, it’ll bite?” Mike responds.

“I think he’ll start to ask  _ questions _ ,” she says. 

“Archivist,” Mike says, grabbing Jon by the hair to make him look at him. It’s not coming through, somehow none of it is quite coming through to him. “ _ Archivist _ ,” Mike says again, and gives him a couple of light slaps across his face. Jon feels his eyes start to refocus as he looks up at Mike. “Ask me to stop. Make us stop.”

“I-I…” Jon tries. He can’t seem to operate his mouth or his mind to summon the hungry power that’s come so easy to him before. The door is locked. He tries to stutter through it again but a hand on his cock makes him twitch his hips and cry out. He tries to reach out once more. This time, the door is gone.

“See?” Mike says, in triumph. A small chuckle comes from the corner of the room. “But just in case. Peter?” Peter Lukas slips the fingers that were holding Jon open out of him. He lifts Jon bodily, easily, and brings him down with him to the floor. He smiles at Jon as he positions him so he’s on his knees in his lap. 

“No,  _ please _ , I--” Jon starts to say, but the words are pushed out of his mind as Peter pushes inside.

Suddenly everything falls away except for Peter’s impossible thickness inside him, and the feeling that it’s splitting him in two. He loses the soft sounds of hands rubbing hard flesh, fingers pushing wetness all around. Their moans and their sighs and their covetous grasping, all of it slips through his fingers like sand. There’s only Peter pulsing hot and thick and deep within him, and as Jon looks into the man’s eyes an idea begins to build itself.

Nobody’s coming to save him.

Nobody came when he was alone with Jonah, when it was just the two of them and Jonah dressed him and touched him and made him look cheap and wanton like this. Nobody burst in through Jonah’s doors and stopped him from degrading himself in front of all of these people. Nobody dragged him from under the table, freed him from having his mouth and throat and mind filled by reanimated avatars. And nobody’s coming to save him from this. Martin could, perhaps, come rescue him before the end of it all. But it’s too late for his pride, his soul: both already so stained and tainted by what’s been done to him. By what’s being done to him. Martin can’t erase that. Martin can’t reach into him and take all that away. 

Peter reaches up with both hands and gently pushes the tears off Jon’s cheeks with his thumbs. He makes quiet sounds --  _ hush, Archivist --  _ as he does. Jon looks up and he sees Peter, in turn, looking off to the corner of the room where Jonah sits, watching. And when he looks back to Jon, he is smiling.

“So why not enjoy yourself, then?” Peter asks, lightly. Jon’s eyebrows draw together and he feels the tears rebuild the little paths that Peter swept away. His lips pull up at the corners, like a smile. And high little choking sounds, catching sharp on his throat, spill out of him as his shoulders shake and tremble. Peter smiles back, and he pulls Jon towards him. Jon goes willingly. He presses his lips against Peter’s, opening his mouth to him as Peter swallows his little laughs, or his sobs. He slips his tongue inside Jon and Jon lets it in, strokes it with his own, sucks gently on it. 

Peter takes his hands off Jon’s face and leans back. Jon pulls aways too, and he slowly, slowly lifts himself up on his knees. Just as slow he slides himself down, rolling his hips, taking Peter as deep inside him as before. He rests his hands on Peter’s broad shoulders and he lets his head fall back. He shuts his eyes and moans deep and long and low and he rides Peter’s cock. He hears the sick hungry delight at this from the other voices in the room now, and that makes him moan all the louder. 

“And how is that, now?” Peter whispers to him, watching Jon twitch and writhe as he fucks himself upon him. “Does that feel good?”

“ _ Yes, _ ” Jon breathes, and it’s like drawing out poison. “ _ Yes!”  _ He says again, like lancing rot from a wound. He thrusts his hips more insistently now, his back arching as he alternates between grinding down on Peter and circling his hips to feel him everywhere he can reach. He feels his sight slip from him -- all of it, each one -- and forbidden images and knowledge both begin to disappear. There’s only Peter splitting him open, and now fingers gripping his disheveled hair. He finds his mouth is dragged onto one cock, and he bounces on Peter while he struggles to take the one in his mouth as far as it can go. Time evaporates, and then new hands jerk his head around to his other side. Peter grips his hips hard and thrusts up into him, and the man on his left holds his head still while he pushes his cock all the way in and out of Jon’s open throat. 

And now his head is pulled back by his hair and both cocks push and bump against each other as they both try and slide between his wet and swollen lips. He puts out his tongue and opens wide, and they rub across his wet cheeks and chin as he tries to capture them between his lips to suck and lick them. 

“Oi, Lukas,” a rough voice says. “It’s our turn, innit?” 

“Yeah,” its twin chimes in. “Let us ‘ave a go.” Peter sighs and lets his hands drop from around Jon’s cinched waist. Breekon pulls Jon off Peter’s cock by his hair and Jon whimpers and gasps. Hope takes his place on the ground and Breekon pulls and positions Jon, who goes easy, onto Hope’s waiting prick. Jon sighs with it as it slides in slow, immediately resuming the languid speed he was taking when he rocked on top of Peter. Two new cocks replace the ones trying to claim ownership of his mouth: Arthur and Oliver’s. But soon he’s empty of them as well because Breekon and Hope use their combined strength to lift Jon, pull him up, and suddenly he finds himself with his arms around Hope’s neck, and Hope’s arms under Jon’s spread thighs as he fucks into him standing.

He holds on tight and feels Breekon’s hands running over him from behind. It feels like they’re coming down under him to support him, but Jon whimpers high and desperate because suddenly there’re wet fingers exploring, pushing against where he’s already impaled on one thick cock. 

“No,” Jon breathes, fear finding its way back into his voice. “It w-won’t f--  _ ah _ !” He’s cut off by his own high gasp as one of Breekon’s thick fingers pushes its way into him. His back arches and his eyes roll back as he clenches hard around the insistent stretch. He pulls his arms tighter around Hope and hides his face in his neck, trying to breathe through the heat pulling him apart. Because soon enough Breekon pushes another slick finger alongside Hope’s cock, and that has Jon whimpering louder and louder as his shuddering breaths increase in a sort of melting panic. By the third finger, his tears return, and he hears himself mindlessly begging. 

Whatever it is he’s begging for, what he gets is the unforgiving press of Breekon’s prick past his stretched hole, filling him more than he’d thought possible. This time his eyes cross with the power of the ache inside of him. His tears mix again with the spit on his slick chin, because he can’t even seem to coordinate closing his mouth to swallow. His high keening is free to escape as Breekon pushes forward and they rock their hips to slowly fuck Jon in tandem. His whole entire self feels hyper-sensitized: he feels the catch of Breekon’s fingers digging into his thigh-highs, the straps of the heels locked tight against his ankles, the taut corset impeding his breathing now more than ever. But above it all, his insides are hot and burning and he cries out with the bright white intensity of it all. He might pass out during it, he can’t be sure, but soon the two of them are grunting with force and he can only whimper when they slip out of him and put him back on the ground. He can barely stand on his trembling legs and it burns him when he falls into Trevor’s waiting arms.

Because Julia is sitting on the side of the table, thighs spread open and waiting for Jon’s mouth. Trevor grabs Jon’s upper arms where the ribbon’s begun to fall loose and drags Jon on shaking legs back over to the table. Trevor presses a rough hand into Jon’s back and one in his hair and he bends Jon in half, folds him down. He takes the hand in Jon’s hair and he shoves Jon’s face into Julia, pulling and tugging to make Jon see exactly where to put his tongue. Eventually he holds Jon’s face against Julia and he sucks on her sweetly. She pants with the power in it and Trevor finally releases Jon’s hair to reach back and grab him by his hips instead. In one slow slide he pushes his cock into Jon. Trevor holds on to Jon, Jon holds on to Julia’s thighs, and she holds on to Jon’s hair as Trevor fucks into him again and again and again, pushing Jon’s face into Julia’s wet cunt on every thrust. 

When Julia and Trevor come against him and inside him, they let him drop and he collapses to the ground. The thing that isn’t Sasha moves over to him, stands over him with legs spread, one foot on either side of him. When he gazes dazedly upwards he can see her smirking face looking down on him. He can also see right up her skirt, and see that her panties have been pushed to the side. She bends her knees and crouches down over him, and he weakly, desperately tries to crane his neck up towards her.

“Well  _ done _ , Peter,” she says. “I’m quite fond of this lovely new Archivist.” She lowers her soaking cunt down over his lips and he moans against her from deep inside his chest. “I almost--  _ ah  _ \-- don’t recognize him.” She grabs his hair with both hands and grinds down onto his mouth, rocking slowly as she fucks his face all wet and slow. He rubs his tongue along her as best he can as she spreads her slickness across his face. “But this hungry mouth’s still  _ all _ him.”

As she rides him, Arthur Nolan kneels down, spreads his legs and fucks into him too. He pounds into him as hard and fast as he can, forcing Jon’s hips to buck up into Oliver’s firm, gentle grip on his cock. But they all stop dead when they hear the quiet sound of a throat being cleared meaningfully in the corner. 

“Ah,” Jonah says, looking over his glasses at the papers before him. “He’s about to come.” 

“Oh  _ yes _ ,” moans Arthur, and he motions for Oliver to slow down just a touch. “Can I do it?” Arthur asks, reaching down to grab Jon’s unsullied hand. 

“Not his  _ hand _ ,” Trevor says, taking it from Arthur and wrapping it around his cock. “Still have use for that.” 

“ _ Fine _ ,” Arthur moans, as Mike takes Jon’s other hand to feel his damaged flesh pull and rub against his own prick. Arthur looks Jon up and down for a clear piece of canvas on which to do his work. Jon feels lost, confused inside, not sure what’s coming, excruciating pleasure the only stimulus filling in the cracks made in his mind. Arthur’s hand comes down on Jon’s unmarked shoulder, the one without the thick and twisted scar that desecrates it. He motions at Oliver to resume his tight grip on Jon’s cock and he fucks Jon all the harder.

“ _ Now? _ ” Arthur asks.

“Yes, now,” he hears from the corner. Jon feels heat clench tight within him. He feels heat build against this shoulder. And he screams and screams as he comes to the vile smell and sound of his own sizzling flesh. Arthur pulls out of him with a powerful sigh, and Jon’s whole body spasms and twitches as he comes down from his terrible high with small and shaking sobs. Mike and Trevor come one final time, spilling thick and hot across his face. It drips down thickly, clings to his eyelashes. The monster that took Sasha has long since lifted herself from him and stepped away. 

Jon lies on the floor, wet and sticky and sobbing. The guests all stand around him, looking down. Their faces and bodies blur and blend into one another, all except for one. He doesn’t understand the smile on Jonah’s face, but he suddenly and with certainty knows  _ exactly _ what Jonah sees:

Jon’s twisted, twitching body lies before him, spread and scarred and aching. His hair is a mess; his face is stained with tears and come and spit. One stocking’s come loose from the garters, the other is torn and rife with runs. His legs are open and shaking and slick wetness leaks slow from between his thighs. 

Jonah closes his eyes and he laughs. 


	5. Owned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonah gets his hands dirty.

Jonah bends down to gather Jon up, one arm supporting his back and one under his knees. Jon manages to put his arms around Jonah’s neck to hold on, and finds when he turns his face into Jonah’s shoulder he can’t help but hide.

“Well,” Jonah says to the men and women gathered before him. “It has certainly been a pleasure to provide you with tonight’s entertainment,” he continues, as they all tuck themselves away. “But, alas, the hour is late, and I think we’re all a little tired.”

“Time doesn’t exist anymore,” says Trevor.

“You don’t need to sleep,” says Julia. Jonah closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Get out of my tower,” he says, and he kicks the doors open to leave. He carries Jon up the stairs, and his small, catching sobs are the only accompaniment to their ascent. After they enter Jonah’s room, he takes a moment to pause, standing before his bed.

“Well, Jon,” Jonah says as he turns his head to the side to whisper into Jon’s hair. “Did you enjoy being my whore for a night?” Jon disentangles his arms from around Jonah’s neck and feebly tries to push at his chest. It devastates him that all his strength seems to have been fucked right out of him.

“ _ No _ , Jonah,  _ please _ …” He wants Jonah to put him down, to take his hands off him, to stop  _ speaking _ but it’s so, so hard to order all the thoughts in his mind. Jonah must’ve picked up on Jon’s first desire and so he throws him down onto the bed. Jon immediately tries to scramble up and away from him but Jonah rests a knee on the mattress and looms over him.

“We could always do it again some time,” he says. Jon doesn’t know if it’s an offer, a threat, or a promise. He just lets out another small  _ no!,  _ and strikes out blindly at Jonah. But Jonah only laughs and grabs Jon’s wrists, gripping him around his bracelets and pinning him to the bed. 

“Shh _ ,  _ Jon, _ shh, _ ” Jonah says to him with a smile. “You really don’t find me amusing?” Jon chokes on a laugh. “Ah, see? There we are,” he says, and now Jon snarls like an animal. Jonah presses harder on Jon’s wrists and he drapes his body over him. “You’ll forgive me my little indulgences, won’t you, Jon?” Jonah says quietly, bringing one hand down to play with Jon’s remaining earring. “Sometimes I just want to show you  _ off _ .” Jon recoils in disgust at the twisted tenderness in his tone but Jonah’s fingers have curled around the earring and pulling away hurts.

“After all, I worked so very hard on you,” Jonah continues. “Everyone needs a little recognition. You understand, don’t you, Jon?” Jonah whispers those last words right up against Jon’s mouth, and then he presses their lips firmly together. But Jon won’t let him in, so Jonah pushes his hips down into him and makes him moan. In that moment of openness, Jonah slips inside, sliding his tongue against Jon’s. “Doesn’t it feel good to be so  _ wanted _ ?” Jonah asks him, between gentle kisses. Jon can only let his eyes fall shut. But in that moment Jonah pulls away, and as he looks down on Jon he makes a small, mild sound of displeasure. 

“Stay,” he says, as if Jon could offer him anything other than perfect obedience. He hazily watches Jonah move away and he closes his eyes when he hears water running. Soon Jonah returns to him with a damp washcloth and a smile. He sits back down on the side of the bed and he carefully sweeps the warm cloth down Jon’s face. Jon has to turn away from him, but Jonah just focuses on the side to which he has access. What Jon doesn’t understand is why  _ this, _ of all the things done to him tonight, is making him colour and feel as if the room is warming.

“‘S not necessary,” Jon says, half into the pillow.

“Actually, Jon...” Jonah says meaningfully, and he tips Jon’s face toward him so he can clean the other side.

“Can do it myself,” Jon mutters, but makes no move to grab for the cloth.

“Of course, Jon,” Jonah says, rubbing soft and slow across his neck. Jon’s starting to feel bone-deep exhaustion consume him, and everything starts to slip away as Jonah cleans his arms. The knowledge that his shoulder has already gone from blistering to raw to scabbed to twisted doesn’t even bother him anymore. But soon it’s like he’s never learned the lesson taught to him over and over again, because his mind is snapped painfully back to the horror of his reality when Jonah reaches his thighs.

“If you’re offering to help, Jon...” Jonah says, as he folds Jon’s legs up and into him, nodding at them in silent suggestion. Once again Jon can’t meet Jonah’s eyes as he holds himself open for him. Even though he can’t see the look on his face, Jon can hear his low laugh. He winces and hisses as Jonah cleans him all over, pressing and rubbing against where he’s tender and used. 

“There,” Jonah says, depositing the cloth on a side table. “ _ Now  _ you’re all ready for me.”

“ _ Please _ , no,” Jon protests weakly.

“Don’t worry, Jon, I’ll give you what you need,” Jonah responds. A quiet sound bursts from Jon, twisted and sick. 

“I hate you,” Jon says. “I really, truly h--  _ ahh, _ ” Jon cries out, and Jonah pushes against him and slips easily into his thoroughly used insides. Jon feels his eyebrows pull together and his face contort.

“Does it hurt?” Jonah asks, and he reaches down to tenderly cup the side of Jon’s face.

“O-of course,” Jon bites out, between teeth clenched tight, and he turns away from the false, warm comfort of Jonah’s hand.

“Well,” Jonah says. “I do think you deserve something  _ nice _ after all of your hard work.” At this, Jon makes a small noise of pain. Jonah slides his hand up and rests his palm against Jon’s forehead, pushing back his hair. He presses Jon against the pillow, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. And suddenly, Jon is so, so full. He is no longer here, spread wide and pinned down on Jonah’s big soft bed. He is everywhere, and he feels  _ everything _ .

_ A beautiful man in a fine cravat and waistcoat writhes in the lap of a large and smiling man with bushy, old-fashioned facial hair. He fucks himself slow on his big thick cock.  _

_ Tim Stoker shudders and gasps and he thrusts up into the tightly gripping hands of the hungry man and woman who are pressed against his shivering sides.  _

_ Martin reaches tentatively down into his sleep shorts as he lies awake and alone in the cold small hours of the morning on his tiny cot in the Archives.  _

Jon sees all this and more as his eyes are blown wide, and they leak hot wet tears. He sobs with the enormity of it all: Jonah’s cock moving inside him to the rhythm of the vignettes infesting his mind. He locks his ankles around Jonah’s waist and buries his hands in his shirt, now pulling him in, now pushing him away. 

“Yes, that’s it, Jon.” Jonah encourages him with soft little words and noises as he rubs Jon’s cock and his insides, and as he fills his mind with centuries of hot, insistent pleasure. Jon tries to fight it, tries to lean up against the sick guilt of this terrible voyeurism, but the depth and breadth of Jonah’s intimate Knowing pushes him up and over stark cliffs of white hot pleasure. He hits the roiling water beneath them and he drowns. His body spasms and shakes with the immensity of his pleasure, but Jonah just keeps pushing deeper and deeper into him. 

“They can hurt you and burn you and they can fill you with their come,” Jonah says, low and vicious. “But you know who--” Jonah’s words are cut off with a sharp gasp, and he presses a hand over the lace eye adorning Jon’s chest, over the “M” in its horrible pupil. Jon’s body heaves with the pressure, the further constriction, and he whimpers helplessly. “You know what you  _ are _ .” Jon shakes his head no, but Jonah brings his hand up to press against Jon’s bruised throat. 

“Are you scared?” Jonah asks, as he has asked before. “ _ Are you afraid _ ?” he asks, like he needs to hear it. 

“ _ Nn,”  _ Jon tries, but Jonah is gripping him so, so tightly.

“I know what you are, I know what you can  _ be _ ,” Jonah says, as he buries himself deep in Jon’s loose body, again and again. “And I’m the only one who can make you feel like  _ this,”  _ he whispers, with one final squeeze of Jon’s throat. He puts Jon’s shaking legs over his shoulders and he closes his eyes. “Don’t worry, Jon, you don’t have to answer,” Jonah says, jubilant in his power. And then Jon feels Jonah inside him, like fingers, like tightly grasping claws, and he’s powerless to resist as Jonah tells him exactly what he’s found there.

“You fear me, but more than that… you’re afraid of not knowing. You don’t…” And Jonah stops in what looks and sounds like honest surprise. “You don’t know what I’m going to do to you next.” His voice takes on a tone of awe. “It’s that uncertainty, that puzzle… You can struggle and grasp for it all you like, but the only way to find the answer is to come along and see…” Jonah turns his head and presses his lips to Jon’s bound and delicate ankle. “That’s the knowledge you crave… You want it.” Jonah gasps. “You need it, you’re  _ ravenous _ for it, Archivist.” At that he drops Jon’s legs and they spread wide for him as Jonah leans down to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him again. Jon has to look away when Jonah finally raises his weight off of him. He can’t accept the look on Jonah’s face. He can only listen as the man who made him continues. 

“ _ Fuck,  _ Jon, you’re all soft and open for me,” he says breathlessly. He takes his time with Jon now, unhurried and luxuriating in the feel of him. Jon can only lie back and take it, his whole body limp and used. He gasps weakly at Jonah’s every deep slow thrust, and soon Jonah slides his fingers between Jon’s slack lips, fucking him there too. “You took it _ all _ , Jon,  _ so  _ much, you take  _ everything  _ I give you.” Jon moans around the cock and the fingers inside of him. Through his hazy vision he can see that a few strands of Jonah’s perfect hair have fallen untucked. “ _ Jon _ ,” Jonah says every time he reaches the deepest parts of him. “Jon,  _ Jon _ , my _ Archive… _ You’re  _ so _ \--  _ Do it _ , Jon. Do it.  _ Ask me _ .” Jonah barely bites out the words between hungry gasps. 

“Y...you h-have… e-everything… you wanted…” Jon starts, his voice broken and rough, his words forced out by every harsh push and pull of Jonah’s cock inside of him. “Why _ … why are you doing this to me _ ?” At that, Jonah presses as deep as he can go, and lets out a powerful, exultant cry. He drops his head down for a moment and rides out the aftershocks of his pleasure. Then he raises his head, the corner of his mouth, and an eyebrow, and he looks at Jon.

“Oh,  _ Jon _ ,” he says, with great depth of feeling. “You already know that answer to that.” And he leans down and presses his lips to Jon’s, soft and feather-light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Your comments really kept me poundin' away.


End file.
